THUD!
by Feather Ice
Summary: The emotional response is intriguing, perhaps, but Spock is more concerned with getting the overachieving captain off the Bridge when he's supposed to be asleep. Alas, Captain Kirk is not a fan of making things easy on anyone.


Points of Interest: Again, hell kind of froze over and let me write something mildly amusing. Even if I am portraying Starfleet's finest as a bunch of six year-olds.

Delta shift. Nighttime on the ship, not that the lights on the bridge would let you know. A group of nervous ensigns poking at ship control and trying not to make eye contact with their commanding officer, who stood slightly apart from them all (a feat of spacial manipulation seeing as their posts were in an evenly spaced circle), frowning his usual expression of Emotionless Bastard, and staring rather pointedly at the back of a young man's head. The young man in question was pointedly ignoring this piercing gaze, and the averted gazes of the officers around him, instead opting to fiddle with some dials on the science station that were all perfectly calibrated to the ship's every need. Or at least they had been before he'd gotten there. It was all very simple, really.

The science station was being held hostage.

Commander Spock, determined to root out and subsequently obliterate any disturbances on the bridge with a Vulcan-sized hammer, inched closer.

As soon as his foot landed, a dial was jerked sharply to the left.

Spock took a step back.

Subtly, tanned fingers smoothed the setting back to its point of origin, with flawless precision that was usually to be admired. Of course, the commander still admired the skill on a logical basis and had no desire to see it leave the man it had been invested in. However, he found that he was far less fond of it when it should not have been on the bridge, nor should it have been conscious. Neither it nor the blonde human it was attached to.

Spock took an experimental step sideways.

No reaction.

Throwing caution to the wind, the half-alien took three quick steps towards James Kirk and grabbed the offending hand before it could exact resulting havoc. Kirk looked up like a guilty child and reacted as one did as well, by smiling winningly.

"Captain," Spock addressed, with, all things considered, a good effort towards patience. The smile died a fiery death.

"It's _Jim_!" The man hissed sharply, throwing a quick look around that none of the ensigns dared meet. He interpreted this as the continued 'secrecy' of his identity, and threw Spock an accusatory glare. "Keep it down, would you?"

"All of these officers know who you are, Sir."

Spock was pointing out the obvious. Anyone with a functioning set of optic nerves knew who the captain was. And yet still, even at such a ridiculous command, Spock found himself compromising between formality and overly familiar titles for captains who apparently did not understand the concept of _shifts_. His voice, as well, had been grudgingly lowered. He was beginning to think he knew how Starfleet felt—inexplicably manipulated by someone who ought not be more than a proverbial bug on a proverbial dashboard.

"Your face has been on all of the news channels for the past week." He added because arguing actually seemed to cut down on the necessary meditation time.

"Maybe they're politically inactive," Kirk said brightly. The obvious remark about the politically inactive signing up for Starfleet's dangerous peacemaking mission went unspoken. Instead Spock gave him a very blank look.

"You were not assigned delta shift, _Sir_," he deadpanned. Jim puffed himself up proudly.

"That's where you're wrong! If you would be so kind as to check the duty roster—"

"Interpolating your name into all five shifts qualifies as an abuse of power," said Spock. Jim wilted, throwing a despairing look towards his subordinate that clearly read 'you wouldn't turn me in, would you?' Except Spock would. And he would probably enjoy it. If ever a Vulcan could glean amusement, it would be from seeing James Kirk get his. "Furthermore, without the proper recuperative time, your continued presence in a position of influence is a danger to the ship."

"That's the beauty of it," Kirk exclaimed, gesturing proudly to the monstrosity formerly known as Spock's workplace. Without meaning to, Spock started to count up all the readjustments which would need to be made. The number was quite impressive when one took into account how long, exactly, the captain's presence had gone unnoticed. By Spock at least—not that you could blame him. He believed that 'James Kirk' and 'order and silence' were mutually exclusive events, and so far, the captain had given him no reason to think otherwise. "It's the **science station**! How much trouble can I get into here?"

Spock surveyed the dials sadly, anticipating valuable time lost tuning them as soon as Kirk _left_.

A guilty look interrupted Kirk's glee, cast in Spock's direction, but for the entirely wrong reason. "…Not that there's anything wrong with the science station, of course. It's very nice." There was a pause.

"Nice…?" Spock's eyebrow rose slowly, and Kirk coughed nervously.

"Yeah. Very… clean. Good job. I approve. Hey what does this do?" Impulsively, and perhaps a little frantically, Kirk reached out and found his hand caught a second time. He heaved a sigh. "Look, if you're that bad off for a hand to hold, Spock, you need only ask…"

"That button," Spock informed him without the slightest indication that he heard anything coming out of Kirk's mouth, "sets off a ship-wide alarm in case of biological warfare. Should you push it and such an alarm were to go off in the delta shift, the inactive period, and wake the standard crew up, several of them will feel the need to file formal complaints against you, and likely will apply for transfer. I am among that number."

Kirk freed him arm with a scowl, peeling pale, vaguely green fingers off his wrist. "I'll keep that in mind. Don't you have a ship to command?"

Spock took a few deep breaths, trying to ward away the impending headache. It didn't work. His eyes closed. Spock told himself very carefully that Kirk just couldn't help it, and then asked Kirk himself "Why are you here, Captain?"

"Jim."

That snapping sound was either Ensign Ericson's gum, or Spock's patience.

"_As I am acting captain at this time, you are obligated to answer the question._"

"Touché," Jim quipped, and then shrugged, trying to look very nonchalant and managing only sleepy and in some vague discomfort, like an invisible force was poking him in the eye to keep him awake. "I thought it might be a good chance to reacquaint myself with the inner workings of the ship… Get a feel for all the shifts, you know… And Klingons—you never know **what** crazy shit they'll do next—" Spock actually glared at him. Again Kirk wilted like an oversized plant. "OK, OK. Can't sleep."

"Perhaps you should get an inoculation," Spock suggested testily.

"I'm immune," Jim confessed, apparently trying to channel Ensign Chekov. Spock struggled with his headache and what was an increasingly urgent desire to get his hands around Kirk's neck for exactly two reasons.

"There are… _several_… that you may select…"

Kirk fidgeted, and then pressed on doggedly. "I'm immune to all of them. It's a rare blood disorder that—"

"There is no such disorder," Spock retorted, even though he actually had no idea. Logic was not working well on the captain, so logic could officially sit this debate out in a corner somewhere, preferably far, far away from the bridge, and ideally, Captain Kirk would follow it. "I must request you submit to such an injection." _For your sanity and mine_.

"Ah. I… see…." Kirk's dejection washed over his face. His shoulders sagged, his eyes dropped, and even his ever-rumpled hair seemed to droop. It was very impressive to look at. "…So that's the way it is."

"Yes," Came the unfeeling reply. "I must also ask that the duty roster be rectified and that you send the proper officer to the bridge for his shift."

"…Really…?" If possible, Kirk sagged even lower. Spock did not waver for a second. He stared directly, icily, and inexplicably irritably, right at the man, wondering if Kirk's internal infrastructure was suffering, and why it seemed to be contagious.

"Indeed."

With a final, unhappy sigh, Kirk relinquished the science station and shuffled slowly towards the turbolift. He climbed in with the countenance of a man walking to his own execution, rubbing his neck mournfully and shooting Spock reproachful looks the entire time. Spock watched until the doors squeaked shut, and then spent the ensuing three minutes returning his console to working condition. Once complete, he strode into to the turbolift himself, calling over his shoulder, "Mr. Nelson, you have the com." There was just enough time to see the ensign's panicked expression before the doors closed on him. "Previous destination," Spock requested, and ended up on the sixth floor, mostly empty in delta shift and very much not the medlab.

...And there was Kirk.

Spock walked quickly and quietly over to where the man was leaning against the wall. Kirk was surveying the hallway in an apparent lack of inspiration as to what trouble to cause next. Spock intended to simplify his decision. Kirk realized he was not alone just as Spock's hand closed over his shoulder and let out a noise to that effect.

"Agggck," Kirk choked accusatorily, and sank reluctantly to the floor with a thud. The surrounding officers stared, openmouthed, as Spock calmly threw their captain over his shoulder, nodded professionally to them, and set off for the captain's quarters. He hacked the passcode with the same detached sort of calm, and made his way over to the bed, stepping over a mess that seemed to be less Kirk's fault and more an avalanche from something that was actually Kirk's fault. Spock tried not to pay close attention to that or the rest of Kirk's decorations, because it was not his room, and not everyone on the starship was chronically nosy. It helped that very recently, Kirk had come calling on him to tell him that the new bacilli strain was ready and spent the entire conversation trying to crane his head over Spock's shoulder and get a look.

Spock had found it displeasing, especially when Kirk cried excitedly, "Oh, is that a _bug_?" and every officer in a decent radius had turned and wanted to see for themselves. It was, in fact, not a bug, but a valuable piece of Vulcan artwork, and Spock did not appreciate the comparison.

The commander set his burden down carefully, tucked the unconscious man within sheets he felt could use a good washing, and returned to the door. "Lights off," Spock commanded and was obeyed. Kirk, not one to be left out, mumbled some parody of this, and rolled over so as to better monopolize the blankets. The door closed, and Spock returned the bridge to try and figure out how badly the duty roster had been mangled. A little into this task, he realized something that made him sigh with pleasure.

His headache was completely gone.


End file.
